


Harrison Wells Eats Snacks

by elrhiarhodan



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Cisco's nona forces food on him, Comatose Barry isn't really relevant to the story, Crack, EoHarry is a murderer but not a food thief, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:43:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after the particle accelerator exploded, the man called Harrison Wells is left alone to watch the comatose Barry Allen.  He gets hungry and goes to raid Cisco's endless stash of snacks, when he finds something unexpectedly delicious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harrison Wells Eats Snacks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irishfino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishfino/gifts).



> Although they really don't know it, this fic is all [irishfino](http://archiveofourown.org/users/irishfino/pseuds/irishfino)'s fault. They are giving evil, evil EoHarry a domestic life in [Daddy Blues](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6284860). That was the likely trigger for the dream I had last night, about EoHarry eating … Well, you'll see.
> 
> Many thanks to Theatregirl7299 for the superquick beta!

There were many inconveniences to masquerading as a paraplegic, but this was the disguise he'd chosen and had planned for for over a decade. People wouldn't look beyond the chair, they'd barely see the man in it as a man. He'd be an object of pity, scorn, sympathy. No one would see him as the puppet master, manipulating everyone and everything to his satisfaction. 

Most of the time, he could handle the inconveniences. He'd put on a mild display of temper, just so he could lock himself in his office, get out of that damn chair, and scratch his balls. But there were times when that didn't work, times like now, when it was twelve-thirty in the morning and no one was here (well, no one except his comatose nemesis) and he was _starving_.

He might have lost his speed, but he still had something of a speedster's metabolism and caloric requirements. Which created a problem he hadn't foreseen when he'd decided on this masquerade. His doctors, including the ever-hovering Caitlin Snow, repeatedly cautioned him to watch his diet. It would be far too easy to gain weight, not to mention the difficulties in dealing with the natural consequences of over-eating. 

So, the man known as Harrison Wells stared at his comatose enemy-to-be in the med bay and tried to ignore the hunger pangs, the head ache, the nausea. But they couldn't be ignored forever. 

This was all Cisco's fault. If he hadn't started sneezing uncontrollably in the middle of the day, he'd be the one here on Barry Allen watching duty, monitoring the vitals, making sure that nothing went wrong until it was supposed to. Cisco, of course, had protested that he was more than able to take his shift, but both he and Caitlin nixed the idea. While Barry was certainly developing all the hallmarks of a speedster's impervious biochemical makeup, he wasn't quite there yet and a random infection at this stage could be disastrous. 

So, Cisco went home and Caitlin very prettily asked if it was okay to leave, too. She had promised to meet with her dead fiancé's parents about something. So he was stuck here, unprepared and hungry.

Too aware of the cameras, Harrison wheeled into Cisco's workroom, a place that was always well-stocked with snack food. He ignored the packages of Red Vines and cheap chocolate, although there was a unopened bag of peanut M&Ms that almost tempted him.

He didn't want candy. Sweets weren't his thing, really. He preferred savory, salty, crunchy, fatty goodness. It was a fucking pity that the microwave presented a logistical problem - he couldn't reach it from the damn wheelchair and there was no way he'd be able to hide the scent from the popcorn - that would take hours to dissipate.

Then he found the blue-lidded container. He shook it gently and the rustling was appealing. It felt light, like maybe chips or something? So he opened it.

And grinned. Definitely chips. Although he had to wonder, since chips came prepackaged in bags, why the container? Were these homemade?

He took one, sniffed it. It actually smelled a little meaty, which was always good. But still uncertain and unwilling to commit to the whole chip, he broke off a tiny piece and put it in his mouth. He was immediately hit with the unctuous sensation of salt and fat and meat. All good things.

And it was very crunchy, too.

Hunger - the pure, physical sensation - was replaced by something else. Greed and lust and covetousness. These chips were magic and special and he had to have them.

But they weren't his. He was many things, including a cold-blooded murderer. But he wasn't a food thief. He had _standards_.

The man called Harrison Wells regretfully shut the container and returned it to its place in Cisco's desk.

With a sigh of regret, he rolled out of the workroom and went to his office. The monitors were focused on Barry Allen, split screens displaying his vital signs. Everything was within normal tolerances.

Normally, he'd remain focused on his nemesis, planning every moment, every possible question and answer, every argument, every single situation, every potential encounter, so he'd never be at a loss. His plans were coming so close to fruition. Fifteen years of watching and waiting, fifteen years stuck in this benighted, backwards age, with little consolation except knowing that he was creating the ultimate paradox.

And Big Belly Burgers.

And scotch.

_And those amazing chips._

He couldn't stop thinking about them. There was a whole container full and Cisco wouldn't miss one or two. 

At one-fifteen AM, the man called Harrison Wells went back into the workroom, filched _three_ chips and headed back to his office. He set them out on his desk, noting how the grease was absorbed by the piece of paper he put them on.

These were clearly unhealthy. And if Caitlin saw him eating these, she would gently and inexorably admonish him. In other words, she'd make his life a living hell.

He consumed the first one with relish, nibbling on it bit by bit. Making it last.

He told himself that the second one would be a reward for making it through to two o'clock. He'd have it then.

But he didn't. The second chip lasted until one-forty-seven.

He tried to wait, oh he tried. But the third chip was consumed in a single bite at one-fifty-nine.

The man called Harrison Wells kept licking his lips, his fingers, trying to get every last crumb. He couldn't concentrate, not with that nearly-full container in Cisco's workroom.

Where did his self-discipline go? This wasn't him. He wasn't like this, to be obsessing over a snack.

The seconds ticked by like hours and the only thing he could think about were those chips. Ten minutes past two, he was back in Cisco's workroom, and this time, he filched five chips.

Those lasted all of fifteen minutes. He couldn't stand this. It was impossible and driving him insane.

By six-thirty he'd gone back to that container five times, and the last time he broke down completely and took the damn thing with him.

By eight AM, he'd finished almost every crumb and felt vaguely unwell. Not sick, but close. He went to the bathroom, took care of business and washed up, all the while contemplating how to explain this theft to Cisco. And how to ensure that the boy didn't blab to Caitlin.

A few minutes before nine, the man called Harrison Wells had everything in place - just in time for Cisco Ramon's arrival. 

"How are you feeling?" He feigned an appropriate level of fatherly concern.

"Perfect. I was okay last night - just some seasonal allergies. I took a pill and everything cleared up. There was no need to send me home." 

"Better to be safe than sorry." He watched as Cisco went through the standard morning checks of the comatose Mr. Allen. "When you're done, please come into my office."

Cisco gave him a worried look. The man he knew as Harrison Wells didn't spend much time in there lately. 

"Nothing's wrong, just come when you've finished." He rolled out of the Cortex and figured that the boy would be in his office in less than five minutes.

Four minutes and thirty-two seconds, to be precise.

"What's up, Doctor Wells?"

"Shut the door and take a seat." He gestured to the guest chair.

"Uh oh, this can't be good."

He smiled, a slightly guilty expression he'd spent hours practicing. "I own you an apology, Mr. Ramon."

"You do?" The boy couldn't keep the shocked look off his face. "Why?"

The man known as Harrison Wells pushed the empty container with the blue lid across his desk. "I took something of yours. It was very wrong of me."

Cisco picked up the container, his own face cast in puzzlement. "This is mine?"

"That, and what was inside it. I hadn't expected to stay overnight and hadn't made arrangement for a meal. I knew that you always have something in your workroom and well …" He held up his hands as if to excuse the theft.

Cisco blinked. "You are apologizing for taking some snacks?"

"Yes, I am. These were - " He frowned and considered his choice of words, "exceptional. I don't think I've ever had potato chips like that."

Cisco still seemed puzzled and opened the empty container. 

The few crumbs he'd left were apparently enough to identify the contents. 

"Umm, those weren't potato chips, Doctor Wells."

"They weren't?" 

Cisco grinned. "Dude, you just ate a half-pound of chicharrón. My nona made them."

"Oh, dear. I'm doubly sorry. I didn't mean to steal something your grandmother cooked."

"No problem, Doctor Wells. They aren't really my thing, but she would get offended if I didn't take them. I'm glad you like them. It would have been a shame to toss them."

He was relieved. "Then I'm glad I made a good choice."

"But dude, that's a lot of chicharrón to eat in one sitting."

"Cisco, I'm going to have to confess, I have no clue what 'chicharrón' are."

The boy's grin got a little wider. "Deep fried pork skin. Pork rinds."

The man known as Harrison Wells blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You've had to have seen bags of pork rinds at some time in your life, right? That's what these are. But home made, so they're better."

He had a vague recollection of seeing something called 'pork rinds' at gas stations and supermarkets - or maybe those were the real Harrison Wells' memories.

"Ah."

"Of course, the best type of chicharrón are made from pork belly. Dried out and deep fried. Those I like."

"Deep fried pork belly. That's deep fried bacon. I just … I had no idea that … There is even such a thing…" _Who would he have to kill to get some of that?_ He gave himself a mental shake. "Well, anyway, I do apologize for stealing your food. That was wrong of me."

"Doctor Wells, that's seriously not a problem. Whatever I have is yours - at least anything in the workroom. I owe you so much."

He waved off Cisco's words. "You give me much, Cisco. Your faith and loyalty to me and S.T.A.R. Labs is something I never fail to appreciate. But I need to show that to you more than I have. Here." He handed Cisco an envelope and waited for the boy to open it. 

"Doctor Wells! This - this is incredible. The FSL laser cutter - the new model - I don't know what to say." 

"There's nothing to say. You had put in a purchase request for the smaller unit - one dedicated to your workroom - a few weeks before everything went to hell. I'd planned to approve it but, well … " He made an expansive gesture. "There were a few distractions."

Cisco nodded. "That's the understatement of the year."

"So, I placed the order this morning. It should be here in a few weeks. I put in a few upgrades and modifications that should make it more useful for you."

Cisco continued to stare at the purchase confirmation, and repeated, "Doctor Wells … I don't know what to say."

"Enjoy it, put it to good use."

"I will, I will." 

The man called Harrison Wells found himself enjoying Cisco's reaction to his generosity. 

"I should go get to work, you know - do stuff."

He nodded. But just before the boy left, he stopped him.

"Cisco, a favor, please."

"Anything, whatever you want, Doctor Wells."

"Those chicharrón - best not mention them to Caitlin. She's rather … protective of my health and I have a feeling she wouldn't approve."

"Hell, no! She'd hound you for the rest of eternity about them."

"So - my late night theft, that just between you and me. Right?"

"Absolutely."

He pushed the empty container at Cisco. Best take this."

"Yeah, my nona will want that back. You have no idea how possessive she is about her tupperware."

"And if she offers to refills it?"

Cisco grinned, an eager co-conspirator. "I'll be sure to let her know that a double portion would be especially appreciated."

He nodded and smiled. "Thank you, Cisco." The boy all but skipped out of his office. 

The man called Harrison Wells drummed his fingers against the wheelchair's arm and wondered how long he was going to have to wait until that blue-lidded container reappeared in Cisco's workroom.

__

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> I've never had a pork rind in my life, but I've had pork belly chicharrón, and yes, deep fried bacon is truly a gift to humankind. 
> 
> Feel free to follow me at my tumblr [Obscene Circus Ponies](http://elrhiarhodan.tumblr.com/), or on my old school (and much beloved) [LiveJournal](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/) account.


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